


Dragonheat

by tweedle_ (tweedle)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: FPS, M/M, Orlijah Month
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-13
Updated: 2012-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-29 11:11:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tweedle/pseuds/tweedle_
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon Snow finds something quite unexpected North of The Wall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dragonheat

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Orlijah_Month](http://orlijah-month.livejournal.com/) 2012, [Prompt 3 - And Now For Someone Completely Different](http://orlijah-month.livejournal.com/171048.html). No spoilers, nothing but a guess or two.  
> Beta'ed by ljuser **itstonedme**.
> 
> It would be lovely to know what you think, both the good and the bad. Thanks.

  
**Dragonheat**  


Jon Snow of the Night Watch, bastard son of Eddard Stark, the late Lord of Winterfell, drops to one knee in the newly fallen snow to inspect the tracks that he has been following for the last hour since he left the rangers camp with his direwolf, Ghost. The two have been tasked with checking the base of the wall for damage. All along The Wall are caches of food and gear, cunningly hidden but in ways that a ranger can find, and they are not expected back for several days. They are only just beyond the Wall, and there has been no reason for Jon to fear either wildings or _others_.

Until now.

The tracks are unlike anything Jon had ever seen before. They are man-shaped, but far too light on the snow. Jon can make out, quite clearly, the impression in the new snow of a barefoot. 'Impossible,' he thinks. Clothed as he is in leather, fur and heavy woollens and shod in thickly lined leather boots against the bitter cold, he cannot imagine how anything human, clad otherwise, could survive.

He follows the light prints another hundred paces when stranger still they seem to vanish completely. Eyes narrowed against the snow glare, Jon searches for the next step. Nothing. Unless the thing flew, it is nearby.

'Ghost,' thinks Jon. 'Ghost, to me.'

There is a brief moment when the tracks in front of Jon disappear and in their place Jon sees blooded snow and tastes its salt on his tongue, before the huge direwolf is crouched beside him, muzzle reddened from its recent kill and its red eyes bright with interest.

Jon gestures down to the tracks and Ghost's eyes follow the sweep of his hand and his head goes down. It seems to Jon that the direwolf considers and dismisses the print, before stepping gingerly over it and sniffs the unmarked snow around it.

Jon almost calls Ghost to task. There is nothing to see and Ghost might only be continuing his hunt. It could be that there are small animals deep beneath the snow that only a direwolf can sense. Or perhaps whoever or whatever made the marks in the snow was taken by an eagle. 'Yes,' thinks Jon. 'That could explain it.'

"Ghost," calls Jon ready to abort this hunt. He is beginning to feel the creep of the killing cold from having crouched motionless for so long.

The direwolf ignores him and casts across the pristine snow. He searches a wide area, but always comes back to one spot. Eventually satisfied, Ghost takes one tentative step past that spot and freezes, noise quivering with effort. It is a long moment before he takes a second in the same direction. Head stretched forward and forepaw poised, Ghost looks back at Jon before focusing all his attention on a thicket of trees ahead.

Whatever Ghost senses is invisible to Jon and he likes that not at all. It may well be more game, but it might not. Jon loosens his broadsword in its sheath before following Ghost as the direwolf begins to stalk their quarry in earnest.

Ghost cocks his head to listen and with a sudden bound disappears into the wood. Jon pauses only to check the area behind them before following after. It is darker under the trees and Jon's eyes have barely had a chance to adjust when he hears Ghost's low growl ahead. He follows the sound, drawing his sword as he steps into a clearing.

What he sees is not at all what he expected. The trees have given way to a hard jut of rock rising up from the forest floor. Before it, Ghost, is crouched low, teeth bared and snarling, held at bay by an arrow in a tightly drawn bow. Neither direwolf nor archer show any sign that they are aware of Jon's arrival.

It gives Jon a moment to try to put the pieces of this puzzle together.

The archer does not at all match the prints in the snow. For one, he is shod in soft grey green boots; for another, he does not seem to be leaving any prints at all, standing impossibly atop the surface of the powdery snow. Jon studies him, for it is most definitely male despite the long fair hair and slim shape. There is breadth to the shoulders and strength in the arms to hold a drawn bow for so long. The eyes are blue but do not glow with the unholy light of something dead come back to life. It is the pointed tips of the ears that give Jon pause as much as anything. A long cloak, the same muted green as his boots, is the archer's only protection against the bitter cold.

"Who are you?" asks Jon.

"A visitor," is the measured reply.

"From where?"

"The North."

Jon frowns. To Jon 'the North' can only mean beyond the Wall and this man, or whatever he is, doesn't match anything he knows of that can be found there.

"Where are you going?"

"South."

"Alone?" asks Jon, thinking of the tracks he first discovered. For the first time the blue eyes flick to meet his and Jon feels as if his worth is being weighed.

"Not yet," says the archer, uncocking the arrow and lowering his bow.

Ghost also stands down also as it were, relaxing enough to allow his jaw to rest on his forepaws. Only his bright red eyes show his continuing interest.

The archer turns and gathers something from the snow that Jon has only just noticed. It is the size of a child and the archer cradles it to his chest, before meeting Jon's gaze. "I can no longer keep him warm," he explains. "We carry enough food, but I have not rested for many days. It is too dangerous, and I have nothing to spare with which to keep him alive."

"Who is it?" asks Jon, sheathing his sword and then drawing nearer. "A child?"

"No. He is a Halfling in my care."

"A Halfling," repeats Jon, trying out this strange new word. He lifts his hand and, when no objection is made, slowly pushes back the hood which obscures the Halfling from his view. White skin, he sees, tinged with blue and the pointed tips of ears peeking through dark matted curls. Jon looks from one to the other, comparing similarities and differences. Finally he asks, "Who are you?"

"I am Legolas Greenleaf, an Elf from the Undying Land."

"The Undying Land?"

"Beyond the North."

Jon has never heard of any lands beyond the North, undying or not. Not of Elves or Halflings either. There are so many questions to be answered but the sense of urgency, the feeling that something must be done radiating from the pair is overpowering. "What can I do?" he asks, unable not to.

"Guard him while I rest," says Legolas.

"Is that all?" asks Jon.

"Yes, that is all, but you don't understand. Things are drawn to him. All manner of things, both good and evil. It is sometimes difficult to tell one from the other."

Jon frowns. "How do you know which I am?"

For the moment Legolas ignores the question. "What are you called?" he asks.

"Jon Snow."

"I have become a very good judge, Jon Snow," says Legolas and offers up his burden to him.

"What is he called?" asks John, taking the dead weight carefully from the Elf.

"Frodo."

"Frodo," murmurs Jon, as if to a babe, and shifts the Halfling in his arms until he finds a position that he hopes is comfortable to both of them. "What now?" he asks Legolas. "Surely you cannot rest here?" There are only rock and snow and trees that Jon can see.

For an answer, Legolas steps up to the rock face and to Jon's astonishment, takes hold of what appears to be solid rock and pulls its soft folds aside to expose a wide opening in the rock face. At Legolas's nod, Jon ducks his head and steps inside. In the light from the opening, Jon sees a space three arm lengths wide and at least eight long. The ceiling is far above them and is hidden from his view in the low light. The space is empty except for a small pile of the travellers' belongings far in the back of the cave.

As Legolas follows them inside, he lets the grey fabric swing back into place over the mouth of the cave.

"Wait!" hisses Jon as they are plunged into darkness. He wonders for a moment if _he_ is able to tell good from evil, before he becomes aware of a soft light. He can just make out the shape of the Elf next to him. He gasps when he realises that the source of the light emanates from the Halfling in his arms.

"Shh," breathes Legolas and reaches in to the front of Frodo's cloak and draws from it a slender vial on a chain. " _Aiya Eärendil Elenion Ancalima_ ," he murmurs and lays it on Frodo's breast. A glow starts deep within the heart of the vial. Its strength increases until it bathes Frodo in a warm glow.

Legolas leaves Jon gaping and crouches by the packs and draws out a thick but well used cloak, judging by its faded colour and the mended rents. He spreads it out on the dry sandy floor. "Jon," he calls. While he waits for Jon to approach, he arranges their belongings on and around the cloak. Some are placed against the nearest wall so that one might lean more comfortably. A drinking flask is nearby and flat golden cakes wrapped in leaves rest beside it.

Jon kneels cautiously on the edge of the cloak. He lays Frodo down, and goes to draw his sword in readiness, but Legolas's hand on his arm stops him.

"Wait," he says. "That will not help Frodo. It is the heat from your body, your life force, which he needs."

"Oh," says Jon in confusion. "How should I...?"

"Skin to skin is best."

He frowns. The men of the Night Watch are vowed to celibacy and modesty, which even among the men themselves, is esteemed and encouraged. It has been a long while since Jon has seen others unclothed or been seen by them.

Right now, clad against the bitter cold, there is precious little of Jon's skin exposed.

The objection forming on his tongue is forestalled when the Elf says, "Truly, it would be best."

Jon sighs and reaches for the clasp of his cloak and undoes it. As a squire would, Legolas takes the cloak and sets aside before reaching for the laces holding Jon's boiled leather armour in place. The familiarity of the action relaxes Jon. He has been helped into and out of his armour a thousand times, but when Legolas reaches for the ties holding the soft linen shirt nearest his skin, he stiffens and instinctively traps the long slender fingers in his own.

He holds them only a moment before he is aware of their warmth.

"Do you feel it?" asks Legolas, knowing full well that he does. "Warm, yes?" and Jon nods. Legolas curls his fingers so that it is now he who is holding Jon's hand. "But, you," he continues, "You burn." He drops Jon's hand and watches at him patiently.

Jon can truly see not harm, but hides his discomfort by watching his own fingers untie the knots.

"Thank you," says Legolas when Jon is finished. "Now, sit comfortably," he directs before reaching for the Halfling. With practiced hands, he frees the small limbs from their confining clothes, and lays him, completely bare, in Jon's lap.

Jon is more shocked than he thought possible and it is not until Frodo begins to slide limply away from him, does he react by wrapping an arm around a bare hip. He cannot help the blush that he can feel staining his cheeks.

"You are embarrassed," says Legolas in surprise and Jon blushes more deeply. "I am sorry, but there is no other way. I care more for him than I do your modesty. Draw him to your chest, to your bare skin."

It is easier to obey than to object at this point and Jon would be hard-pressed to express what exactly it is that is making him so uncomfortable. After some trial and error, Jon finds that if he tucks Frodo's head into the crook of his neck and allows Frodo's back to sit in the curve of his arm, less 'holding' is required for him to remain in place.

"He will not wake for many hours yet," says Legolas. "And there is food and drink if you need." He then asks, "Are you content, Jon Snow?"

"Yes," says Jon, not feeling content at all and looking anywhere but at the figure in his nap.

"Thank you," says Legolas. "I will sleep now. It may not seem like sleep to you, but be assured that the part of me that needs sleep is at rest. Should you have need of me, call my name and I will awake." The Elf walks to the back of the cave where he stretches out on his own cloak with his hands clasped across this stomach.

'It might look like sleep indeed,' thinks Jon, if Legolas's eyes were not open or he did not sing softly to himself.

He is just closing his own eyes when Legolas calls softly to him. "Jon, if Frodo wakes before I, do not let him frighten you. Call if you need."

Jon looks sharply at the Elf, but Legolas is once again lost in his songs. How could he be frightened of such a small thing? Each place that Frodo touches him is cold and dry. Even the light breath he feels against his neck has no warmth in it. It isn't natural and Jon flips the corner of his own cloak to cover the blue tinged flesh. Concerned, yes. Frightened, never.

He settles himself more comfortably and drifts into sleep.

He wakes with a jolt from a dream in which a hot wind had whipped his hair about his face and scoured his skin. For a moment, he remembers looking down on a great desert from high above. Overhead was a white hot sun. He had felt that he was flying, that somehow he had wings, but suddenly they were clipped and then he was falling.

It is a long moment before his pounding heart slows and his eyes make sense of his surroundings and his ears hear the reassuring sound of Elf song.

The light from the crystal has faded, but the soft glow from the Halfling remains. It is a little brighter, thinks Jon.

Neither has moved in how long Jon knows not. He shifts uncomfortably at the stiffness in his limbs. He cradles the Halfling more firmly in his arms before wriggling into an upright position and takes stock.

Frodo is still cool against his skin and he shows no signs of waking. Jon hopes that whatever it is that he is giving Frodo is not too little, too late. He is determined to do all he can to see him well. He sets his own discomfort aside and flips back the fold of cloak covering the Halfling.

Taking care not to jostle him too badly, Jon moves Frodo from one side of his chest and then the other while he pulls his shirt tails from his trousers. He pushes them aside and rearranges Frodo against his torso, slipping Frodo's arms around his neck so that the curve of his body and bent legs rest against Jon with as much contact as possible. He pulls him flush and covers them both again in his cloak.

He is glad of the lack of the dim light for it was impossible not to look at Frodo, not to look at all of Frodo as he moved him.

He is honest enough to admit to himself that he is curious and what he saw now gives him much to think about.

He had continued to think of Frodo as a child, despite what Legolas had said. But while the smooth hairless body seems to confirm his youth, the thick dark curls at his groin belie it. And though Jon blushes to admit, the penis resting soft against his thigh is in no way childish.

There are marks on Frodo's body that speak of long hardship as well - an ugly wheal on his neck, nearly hidden in his hair; a strange white scar on his shoulder, which seemed to burn Jon like the coldest ice when he had touched it; the long healed abrasion around the slender neck; the first finger missing from his left hand.

And such strange feet.

Jon finds that his study of the Halfling has spawned more questions than answers, and it is a long time before he sleeps again.

What wakes him next is not the Halfling or the Elf, but hunger. That, he could ignore but he soon becomes aware of the very great need to relieve himself. Loathe though he is to do so, he calls to the Elf. He explains quickly and Legolas takes Frodo.

Jon fumbles to dress himself adequately in the low light, until Legolas repeats the words that cause the star glass to shine anew. In a short time, Jon finds himself pushing the cloth from the entrance aside and stepping out into the bitter cold of pre-dawn. He walks a distance from the mouth of the cave and relieves himself against a tree. Pulling his clothing to, he calls softly for Ghost, but cannot sense him nearby. He is not worried as there is little that could harm the direwolf so near The Wall.

He will come in his own time or when Jon has need of him.

The cave feels much warmer when Jon goes back inside, and he sees that Legolas has kindled a small fire in a circle of stones. A sturdy leather bag held open by a frame of bent branches sits next to the fire; when Jon approaches, Legolas holds out a folded skin.

"Jon, take this and fill it with as much fresh clean snow as it will hold."

Jon doesn't stop to ask what it's for and does as he's bid. When he returns, Legolas takes the skin and scoops as much of the snow that will fit into the bag. Next to the fire the snow begins to melt and as the level drops Legolas adds more snow.

Clean round stones have been piled around the edge of the fire and when they are hot, Legolas slips them into the water. When they have given up their heat he removes them and replaces them with fresh.

After watching the Elf for some time, Jon finally asks, "What is this for?"

Legolas smiles. "If we had game or fresh vegetables and roots, I would make a stew. But for the moment I will content myself with heating water to bathe Frodo. Hobbits are very fastidious, Jon. He would be horrified to learn how you cared for him all unwashed. But if you are hungry, we have lembas." He nods to the flattened cakes. "You will find them very satisfying."

"Thank you," says Jon, reaching for a cake and the flask of water beside them. He breaks off a corner and takes a small bite. The taste of ripe grains, sweet dried fruit and rich nuts fills his mouth and makes him think of summer. He chews slowly, savouring the flavours.

"You called Frodo a Hobbit. Is that another word for Halfling?"

"Yes," replies Legolas. "It is what they call themselves."

"There are more?" asks Jon surprised. "I had thought that he was to you, an Elf, what to us would be a dwarf. But he does not seem misshapened in any way. He is..." Jon catches himself, remembering his study of Frodo, naked in his lap, and cannot bring himself to finish that thought. "Your ears are very similar," he says instead, not taking his eyes from the fire.

"And your ears are very red," says the Elf with a hint of laughter in his voice. He takes some of the cooled stones from the water before replacing them with hot. "Yours is a world of men. Our world has all manner of beings. Hobbits and Elves are but two of a long list."

Jon feels very ignorant and somehow younger than his seventeen years. "You have travelled far but, indeed, you do not seem much older than I. How old are you, Legolas?"

"I am more than two thousand of your years."

"Two thousand," breathes Jon.

"Yes."

Jon can barely comprehend this. "And Frodo?"

"I would consider him almost babe, but you would not. He is three hundred and twenty by his reckoning. But all Hobbits have a child-like quality that even he still keeps, though he has suffered and lost much."

"I saw the scars on his body," confesses Jon and looks at the Elf. "He does not look like a warrior."  
"Not a warrior, but a hero nonetheless. He did what no one else could do and saved his world from an evil so great that it is a wonder there is anything left of him at all."

Jon wants to hear more. He is sure it would be a tale that his half-brother Bran would love, but a sadness has come over Legolas while speaking and it seems cruel to ask more of him. So he remains silent and waits while the Elf tends the fire and tests the water.

"We are ready, I think," says Legolas after a time. "Will you help me bathe him?"

"Yes."

The hide that Jon had used to gather snow is now dry and Legolas bids him sit and drape it across his lap. "It is easiest like this," says Legolas, laying Frodo into the hollow.

First, they wash his hair, tipping back his head over the curve of Jon's knee. Legolas had added to the water dried leaves from a pouch, which he kept next to his skin, and the scent rising from it was as clean and fresh as anything Jon has ever known. Legolas uses a small cup to pour the warm water over Frodo's hair, working through the knots and combing it with his fingers. "It should be cut," murmurs Legolas, pouring over a final rinse. "But I prefer it long, though he will complain."

Jon glances at the Elf and then down at Frodo, feeling that there is something that he has missed.

He watches as Legolas takes a soft cloth and wets it. Gently he washes Frodo's face and the smuts from his eyes before rinsing the cloth and cleaning his ears and neck with equal care. He bathes each arm and between each finger. He is especially attentive to the stub of the missing finger. Broader strokes are used across the narrow chest and soft stomach and much sooner than Jon expects he is confronted with sight of Legolas's long fine fingers moving over and around the Halfling's flaccid penis. There is no crevice left unwashed and by the time Legolas rinses the cloth and starts to work on Frodo's legs, Jon is becoming distinctly uncomfortable.

If Frodo were to wake now, he is not sure he could bear the shame of his body's reaction to this display of intimacy. He is thankful that Legolas is engrossed in Frodo's toes and the still surprising to Jon curls on the tops of his feet and that his secret is safe.

But a moment later when Legolas remarks that this job is much more difficult when Frodo is awake -- laughing that it tickles and squirming to get away -- Jon has to bite his own lip hard to diffuse the image, and he is not so sure.

Together they turn Frodo carefully, and Jon holds him to his chest while Legolas minsters to his back, buttocks and legs. Jon is beginning to sweat by the time they are finished. He truly doesn’t know what has come over him until he suddenly comprehends.

"He's warm," he says in wonder, raising his eyes to meet the Elf's.

"He is," agrees Legolas. "He will wake soon, I think."

"I'm glad," says Jon. He feels that he's been waiting far longer than a day to finally meet Frodo. "I want to see the colour of his eyes."

They wrap Frodo warmly and lay him near the fire while they empty the used water and hang the hide and cloth to dry. When they are done they spread their cloaks near the fire and share a wafer of lembas and pass the flask of water between them.

Legolas asks Jon of his family and his life on The Wall. They speak for many hours until Jon is nodding with weariness.

"We should rest now," says Legolas. "Will you hold Frodo, or shall I?"

"I will."

"So be it," says Legolas as he lifts Frodo from the cloak and lays him at Jon's side.

Jon opens his shirt and draws Frodo to him, into the curve of his body. He rests his cheek against the sweetly scented curls and closes his eyes.

"His eyes are the truest blue, Jon Snow," he hears and then he sleeps.

He dreams again. Overhead the sun is white hot and he is standing in a high place. Below he sees a huge open plain. A fierce wind moves the grasses like waves on the water and whips his hair about his face. He hears someone call. It is a voice full of laughter and light and tempts him from below, but rather than turn his back to begin the long trek down, he leaps and then soars.

It is the silence that wakes him. He lies still for a moment wondering what is amiss until sudden fear grips him and he gropes blindly in the dim light of the fire.

"Legolas," he calls, but there is no answer.

He leaps to his feet and pushing the cloth covering the entrance aside and steps into the noon day sun. His shields his eyes against the glare and searches the area outside the cave. There is new snow falling and the ground is smooth and unmarked.

He stands lost and disbelieving until the bitter cold drives him back inside.

He throws fuel on the fire and when the flame lick up the dry wood, he can see that their packs and cloaks are gone as well.

It is a long time since he last wept, but he weeps now. They are gone and Jon thinks that this is how it must feel to break your heart and lose your dreams.

When his tears are spent, he wearily begins to gather his own belongings and it is only then that he discovers the thin roll of vellum. He moves closer to the fire and eagerly slides off the string. The paper springs open and a long lock of curling brown hair falls into his lap. He holds it in one hand while the other smoothes the paper across his knee.

 _I am sorry, Jon Snow,_ he reads and the hope that has been blossoming fades.

_That we have left will seem the greatest unkindness to you, but truly, there is no other way. We could not risk you giving up all as we have. You have vows to keep and tasks to complete. You must not be tempted from them._

But a day will come when you are free. Free to do as you will, to come to us if you wish.

You are of the dragon , Frodo says, and if it is your desire to find us, you will. I cannot help but believe him.

Thank you, Jon Snow, for all that you have done.

Legolas Greenleaf

The fire has burned low when Jon folds the letter with the lock hair inside and slips it inside his shirt. He takes the grey cloth from the entrance and packs it with his other belongs. Lastly, he dons his armour and cloak and steps outside.

"Ghost," Jon calls aloud for there is no one else to hear. "Ghost, to me."

***

[](http://s960.photobucket.com/albums/ae89/Orlijah_Month/tweedle/?action=view&current=dragonheat1.png)

Banner by ljuser **stormatdusk** , here, at the end of all things, because I think it is the most wonderful last impression.

***


End file.
